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P  O   L   L   K  N 

MAR! 

UC-NRLF 


B    3    33b 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


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WILLOW    POLLEN 


WILLOW     POLLEN 


BY 
JEANNETTE     MARKS 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


The     Four     Seas     Press 
Boston.    Maas.,   U.   S.  A. 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  MOTHER 
JEANNETTE  HOLMES  COLWELL  MARKS 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Many  of  these  poems  were  first  published  in 
Ainslee's,  Bellman,  Century,  Churchman,  Con 
temporary  Verse,  Everybody's,  Freeman,  Forum, 
Holland's  Magazine,  McClure's,  Metropolitan,  Nation, 
New  Republic,  North  American  Review,  Outlook, 
Poetry  (Chicago),  Poetry  Journal,  The  Bookman, 
Smart  Set  and  other  magazines. 

Fieur  de  Lys 
September  27.  1920. 


CONTENTS 

Pa* 

PROEM 

WILLOW  POLLEN *3 

You !4 

CROSS  ROADS *5 

CALENDAR l6 

WILD  GRAPE  VINE *9 

To  SOME  FLOWERS 21 

STARS 22 

GREEN  GOLDEN  DOOR 23 

BREAD 24 

OBSCURITY 26 

BROWN  MOTHER 3° 

SEA  GULLS 32 

THE  WANDERER 34 

BLIND  SLEEP  .     .     .     .' 35 

THE  BOWL 36 

WHITE  HAIR 39 

CLEAR  POOLS 40 

THESE  Two 41 

THE  RAILROAD  STATION 43 

BUBBLES 44 

PEDDLED  JOY 45 

WORK 46 

SOMEWHERE  TONIGHT 47 

YOUR  SUNLIT  WAY 48 

STRANGE  FACES 49 

EVERYWHERE 50 

CLOUD 51 

BUCENTAUR 52 

17] 


CONTENTS 

Page 

MOTH 53 

GRAY  WATERS 54 

JOURNEY'S  END 55 

WHITE  PATHS 56 

EBONY 57 

To  SOME  PHILADELPHIA  SPARROWS     ....  58 

ORIOLE'S  NEST 59 

LITTLE  Miss  HILLY .60 

ROSE  TOADA 61 

THATCH 62 

RAVELLO 64 

CHESTER-ON-THE  DEE 65 

THE  RIVER  SEIONT 66 

GOLD  AND  IVORY .  67 

STEPS 68 

BESIDE  THE  WAY 69 

WAIT  AWHILE 70 

INDIAN  SUMMER 71 

A  THOUSAND  YEARS 72 

THE  BROKEN   DOOR 73 

ONLY  YOUR  NAME 74 

REPETENDS 75 

Too  LATE 76 

THE  TIDE 77 

DUST  AND  DREAMS 78 

THE  NEST 79 

LOST  LOVE 80 

"WHEN  SPRING" 81 

Two  CANDLES 82 

ROSY  MILLER 84 

His  NAME 85 

MIST ,     .  86 

LAST  DAWN .  87 

EVEN  AS  HERE 88 

AGAIN? go 

[8] 


WILLOW    POLLEN 


PROEM 

Beautiful  she  was  to  look  upon 

And  beautiful  to  know, 

And  all  who  knew  her  loved  her. 

There  was  none  to  whom  she  was  not  tender ; 

Compassionate  in  her  word  or  her  silence; 

There  was  none  of  whom  she  did  not  think  well. 

In  a  quiet  room,  my  head  upon  her  breast, 

Often  have  I  heard  her  heart  beat, 

Often  have  I  listened  to  the  voice  of  her  heart, 

And  its  speech  was  the  speech  of  many  sorrows. 

But  of  her  own  sorrows  she  spoke  not; 

She  spoke  only  of  the  grief  that  came   to  her  for 

healing; 

And  her  speech  was  silence, 
Murmur  of  wind, 
Mute  spaces  of  sky, — 
These  were  her  caresses  and  her  healing, 
And  with  silence  and  wind  and  sky  she  is  now  one, — 
Not  separate. 

She  is  gone. 

Remember  her  if  you  will! 

For  me  she  is  still  everywhere 

And  never  to  be  forgotten! 

Out  of  the  dawn 

The  fringed  lashes  of  blue  gentians  widen  to  her  eyes; 

Through  the  hot  day 

The  shadow  of  her  presence  revolves  upon  me 

in] 


As  the  cool  finger  on  the  sun  dial; 

hi  the  afternoon 

Shaken  light  burns  in  the  memory  of  her  hair; 

And  at  evening 

All  my  thoughts  go  fluttering,  gray-winged,  after  her, 

Till  she  gathers  them  in  to  the  nest  of  her  silence 

And  I  am  come  back  to  my  Mother 

And  to  sleep. 


12] 


WILLOW  POLLEN 
Fleur  de  Lys  on  Lake  Cham  plain,  June  5,  1920 

The  rain  upon  my  roof  is  the  rain  of  apple  blossoms, 
At   my    feet   the   water   willows   stand   knee-deep   in 

rushes ; 

A  swaying  mirror  for  the  sun  the  lake  swings  and  tips, 
Spilling  broken  drowsy  shadows  and  silver  leaves. 
In  the  willow  pollen  the  bees  hum ; 
In  the  apple  bloom  the  bees  hum; 
Fluttering  up  like  a  begging  hand 
The  ash  tree  twirls  its  mystic  seven- fold  leaf, 
The  thrush  its  song. 

O  beautiful  world,  what  are  you? 

And  who  made  you? 

Are  you  no  more  than  a  fragrant  dream, 

A  jewelled  crust  of  loam  for  sun  to  shine  upon, 

A  swaying  mirror, 

Willow  pollen, 

A  twirling  song, 

A  crumbling  leaf? 


13] 


YOU 


You  are  the  sunshine, 
I  am  the  sod: 
Flame  to  my  leaf-mould, 
And  goldenrod. 

ii 

You  are  the  shadow, 
I  am  the  rock: 
Coolness  of  sheep  bells, 
Stilling  the  flock. 

in 

You  are  the  starlight, 
I  am  the  stream: 
Trees  dripping  lustre 
Into  our  dream. 


tu) 


CROSS  ROADS 

I  wonder  if  the  wildrose  knows  I  love  you,— 
All  the  festivals  of  spring  your  name  has  lain 
Now  a  petal  on  my  bosom,  now  a  leaf  against  my  lip 
In  the  rain? 

I  wonder  if  the  wood  thrush  knows  I  love  you, — 
Every  step  a  song,  every  song  a  flight  home  to  you 
While  the  path  runs  on  through  twilight  and  the  night 
wheels  hack  to  day 
And  I  pray? 

I  wonder  if  the  heavens  know  I  love  you, — 
Dusky  night-time  cupped  with  stars,  lily  day  immacu 
late 

Leading  on  unto  the  cross  roads  where  you  and  I 
Say  goodbye? 


CALENDAR 
Of  a  Little  Garden  on  Lake  Champlain 

Sometimes  the  sun,  like  a  big  bee 

Choosing  the  flowers  he  will  bring  to  bloom, 

Dreams  over  my  garden, 

So  still  the  dust  shines  on  his  burning  wings. 

And  sometimes  he  swings  away  towards  the  evening 

star 

To  fill  his  basket  claws  with  night. 
Come  morning  he  sprinkles  darkness  with  his  gold, 
Rubs  legs  together — I  saw  him  do  it— 
And  there's  a  purple  larkspur  tapering  into  rose 
And  blood-red  columbine, — 
It's  July  then. 

Or  the  big  bee  finds  a  flaming  dawn, 
Scours  it  with  pollen  from  his  back 
And  there's  a  poppy's  glossy  wrinkled  cup, — 
Then  it's  June. 

At  times  he  scoops  the  white  crest  off  a  wave 
Into  the  basket  of  his  claws — 
I've  seen  the  big  bee  skip  upon  the  lake  for  joy — 
Then  zi-ig!     He's  back  again 
Spreading  some  lilies  by  the  sandy  path, 
White  with  gold  dashed  on  their  lips 
Where  he  clings — the  big  bee — sucking. 
I  know  he's  there  because  the  bells  ring  so: 
Seven  lilies,  then  five,  then  four, 
I  count  them  on  their  stems, 
[16] 


An  octave's  length  of  melody, 

A  little  running  song  of  happiness, — 

It's  August  then. 

But  now  he's  quiet. 

Some  waste  of  gold  in  autumn  leaves  and  fields, 

And  gold  upon  the  lake — pale  leaf  of  drifting  waters 

Cut  by  the  wild  duck's  close,  sharp  flight — frets  him. 

For  he  must  store  in  steep  sky  granaries  much  ban 
nered  gold 

With  which  to  hang  a  hundred  winter  dawns  and 
dusks. 

Still,  he  spares  a  little  for  my  garden's  need, 

Spreading  it  in  marigolds  and  frost, — 

It  is  September  then, — October,  too. 

The  bee,  the  big  bee,  the  burning  bee 

Begins  and  ends  in  gold. 

In  spring,  knocking  the  snow  from  rosy  apple  bloom, 

He  climbs  the  sky  with  fagots  on  his  back 

To  scatter  them  in  yellow  willow  twigs  and  daffodils; 

And  when  he  leaves  my  garden  for  his  sleep, 

Flings  daffodils  ;  long  an  evening  sky, — 

It's  May  then,  and  April,  too. 

Some  say  there  are  no  sky  daffodils  and  no  big  bee. 

Pooh !     I  say  the  sun  is  a  bee,  a  big  bee,  a  burning  bee, 

And  bears  the  whole  world's  wealth  upon  his  back. 

What  if  he  is  a  ruby  humming  bird  betimes 

Or  a  saffron  butterfly 

Or  a  gray-hooded  moth  at  dusk  ! 


I've  seen  him  when  he  was  an  emerald  dragon  fly- 
About  my  little  garden's  pool, 
But  not  for  long. 
He  has  his  mysteries. 
His  winter's  cell  of  silver  white  has  neither  rose  nor 

reel  nor  gold. 

Who  would  not  like  the  change?  .   .  . 
I  say  the  sun  is  a  bee,  a  big  bee,  a  burning  bee, 
I  know! 


WILD  GRAPE  VINE 

I  will  be  like  a  wild  grape  vine, 

I  will  climb  the  sun  gathering  color; 

Until  every  leaf  of  my  being  is  fluted  with  rose, 

Cupped  in  brown-gold, 

Dusted  with  silver. 

I  will  cling  with  my  dry  stem 

Until  my  stem  is  strong  as  brown  cedar. 

Then  will  I  swing  from  tree  to  tree, 

Twisting,  turning,  blowing, 

Binding  all  trees  with  my  tendrils, 

Embracing  them,  leaping  with  them, 

Woven  in  and  out  of  them, 

One! 

And  the  wild  bee  shall  love  me, 

And  the  wild  bee  shall  follow  me 

With  song! 

And  I  shall  be  mad  fragrance  at  dusk 

And  sweet  odor  at  dawn. 

And  then! — And  then 

Among  all  beloved  trees  which  can  resist  me! 

They  will  yield  themselves  to  me 

And  I  shall  swing  over  the  whole  world, — 

Every  forest  of  earth, 

Every  dim  place,  withdrawn,  silent, 

Every  wilderness, — 

Spanning  the  sky  with  a  vast  arch  of  rose, 

Beating  upon  the  stars  with  my  gold, 

Kissing  the  dawn  with  my  silver, 


Resting  in  my  brown  upon  earth, 
My  roots  in  her,  my  fruit  her  being ! 

Wind,  Wind, 

Then  will  the  mad  fragrance  of  my  breath  be  your 

breath,— 

The  wild  bee  clinging! 
Wind,  Wind, 

Then  will  my  hard  dry  stem  know  the  flight  of  bird,— 
The  wild  bee  following! 
Wind,  Wind, 
Then  will  my  love  know  the  flutter  of  soft  leaf  upon 

me, — 
The  wild  bee  singing! 


[20] 


TO  SOME  FLOWERS 
Growing  Near  a  Wall  of  Portland  Harbor 

What  will  you  bring  today? 
Nod  once  if  it  be  grave, 
Nod  thrice  if  it  be  gay! 

Primrose  with  eyes  for  night, 
Sweet-peas  with  wings  for  flight, 
Poppies  with  cups  for  dew, 
Love  in  the  midst  of  rue: 
Which  nods  to  me? 

No,  you  turn  your  faces  all  one  way 
Against  the  wall, 
Because  a  wind  from  off  the  sea 
Draws  its  chill  fingers  down  your  cups 
And  bids  your  petals  fall. 

You  do  not  nod, 

You  beckon  neither  once  nor  thrice 

To  me,  but  to  the  earth 

There  slips  a  cover  manifold 

Of  every  hue. 

And  from  the  wall  beside  the  sea 
Curl  mist  and  myriad  broken  wings. 

Such  gift  you  give  to  me! 
[21] 


STARS 


When  joys  were  vivid  I  did  sit 
Within  a  golden  field, 
And  there  I  pulled  the  whitest  stars 
Green  earth  can  yield. 

ii 

For  Bethlehem  those  stars  were  named, 
The  Lord  Christ  sat  with  me; 
And  I  was  little  and  I  leaned 
Upon  His  knee. 

in 

Now  I  am  old  and  joys  are  gone, 
Christ  in  this  room  I  find 
Who  brings  from  distant  Bethlehem 
Stars  for  His  blind. 


[22] 


GREEN  GOLDEN  DOOR 

Green  golden  door,  swing  in,  swing  in! 
Fanning  the  life  a  man  must  live, 
Echoes  and  airs  and  minstrelsies, 
Love  and  hope  that  he  calleth  his, 
Fear  and  hurt  and  a  man's  own  sin 
Casting  them  forth  and  sucking  them  in, 

Green  golden  door,  swing  out,  swing  out ! 

Green  golden  door,  swing  in,  swing  in! 
Show  me  the  youth  that  will  not  die, 
Tell  me  the  dream  that  has  not  waked, 
Seek  me  the  heart  that  never  ached, 
Speak  me  the  truth  men  will  not  doubt ! 

Green  golden  door,  swing  out,  swing  out ! 

Green  golden  door,  swing  in,  swing  out ! 
Long  is  the  wailing  of  man's  breath, 
Short  is  the  wail  of  death. 


[23] 


BREAD 


Dear  and  Unknown, 

So  you  shower  white  porcelain  with  roses  for  me, 

Red  roses,  white  roses,  roses  of  rose, 

Clipping  their  stems, 

Spreading  them  out  in  the  bowl 

Till  the  green  leaves  net  the  white  water  with  silver, 

Glisten  with  light, 

Stir  with  the  stir  of  their  pattern  of  leaves, 

With  the  breath  of  their  draught  of  cool  water, 

With  the  bloom  of  rose  petals  crisp  in  the  peace  of 

white  water, 

Safe  in  the  shadow  of  night, 
Tasting  the  gift  of  new  life. 


ii 

Once  beauty  was  bread  unto  me. 

But  now  I  am  gone,  rob  none  for  my  bread. 

God  gave  me  a  soul  no  rose,  red  or  white,  ever  equalled. 

Did  God  give  me  love? 

What  doubling  of  petals  has  ever  brought  grief? 

What  leaf? 

In  what  garden  is  life  crushed  always  to  dreams? 

Oh,  now,  what  are  roses  to  me, 

Red  roses,  white  roses  and  roses  of  rose? 

Docs  God  give  the  roses  a  soul  for  their  flight? 

What  petals  blow  on  this  journey  I  go? 

[24] 


Ill 

Dear,  my  Unknown, 

Put  no  rose  to  my  lips  cold  in  this  porcelain  bowl  of 

myself! 

Roses,  red  roses,  white  roses,  roses  of  rose, 
Once  bread  unto  me ; 
Rain  them  on  pulses  that  beat, 

Toss  them  to  hands  which  are  quick  to  their  bloom ; 
Give  them,  I  beg  you,  to  one  who  can  see ; 
Feed  them,  I  pray  you, — 

Roses,  red  roses,  white  roses,  roses  of  rose, — 
To  men  who  still  hunger  for  bread! 


[25] 


OBSCURITY 


Someday  I  shall  be  a  leaf 

A  shining  green  leaf,  fan-folded, 

One  of  many  opening  in  a  sunlit  wind; 

Or  I  shall  be  a  bit  of  bark, 

Say  on  the  Poverty  Birch — 

Since  I  am  obscure  and  poor  and  short  of  life 

And  my  work  of  no  account  to  commerce — , 

And  I  shall  flutter  there  in  the  wind, 

My  bit  of  sooty  white  rind  speckled  red  and  gold  like 

trout  skin 

And  cross-hatched  with  lines  of  color; 
Or — but  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall  be 
And  it  does  not  matter. 
God  has  made  so  much  that  alters  beautiful : 
The  jigging  shadows  of  trees 
Through  which  thoughts  pass  to  that  which  does  not 

change ; 

The  wind  that  tramps  eternity ; 
The  very  lava  of  this  universe  He  turns  to  frost ; 
Like  frost  He  throws  white  fingers  up  out  of  loam 
And  tosses  into  space  the  spinning  stars. 

ii 

I  wonder  whether  ragged  autumn  leaves  feel  ill  clad 
Remembering  their  soft  dress  in  spring? 
Or  whether  autumn  browns  seem  dreary  to  the  leaves 
and  grass? 

[26] 


And  growing  older  makes  cedars  shabby  at  the  stem? 
I  hear  the  hard,  dry  clatter  of  some  dead  oak  leaves, — 
They  sound  so  strong  for  any  wind. 
But  sometimes  when  I  am  tired  my  dress  makes  me 

ashamed 

And  I  am  awkward  and  ill  at  ease — 
Clothes  have  a  way  of  telling  stories 
Even  as  the  bark  of  trees  will  tell 
Which  way  the  storm  winds  blow — 
I  remember  when  I  was  young 
And  scarcely  knew  that  money  paid  for  clothes, 
My  garments  were  fresh  and  silken  like  poplar  leaves 
And  there  were  more  than  I  needed; 
And  my  hair  was  soft  and  thick, 

With  gold  always  in  it  as  in  the  larch  in  early  spring; 
And  my  body  was  lithe  and  vigorous; 
When  I  was  tired  it  was  the  quick  dip  of  the  sapling 

in  the  storm, 

The  least  clearing  wind  set  me  free  again 
And  I  stood  straight  with  all  my  quivering  aspen  leaves 
Shaking  the  sunlight  into  dance. 


in 


Now  I  lie  awake  at  night,  many  nights, 

Sometimes  when  I  am  ill, 

Sometimes  when  I  am  well, 

And  think  about  money  and  rents  in  worn  clothes 

And  feel  the  hunger  of  old  women  and  backyard  cats 

As  if  it  were  my  own  hunger; 


And  the  wind  noses  about  for  crumbs  in  a  bit  of  news 
paper 

And  flaps  tattered  dirty  shawls  over  me, 
And  my  thoughts  are  bent  and  old 
And  I  shiver  in  the  dark  trying  to  bless  God. 
I  wonder  why  God  gives  Himself  to  trees 
And  lets  old  women  starve? 

And  backyard  cats  nose  for  crumbs  in  a  piece  of  news 
paper? 
And  why  certain  rich  people  are  as  well  varnished 

against  cold 

As  fat  beech  buds  against  the  frost? 
Do  you  suppose  God  is  a  Merchant 
And  sells  this  warm  lustre  from  the  stars- 
Stars  hung  like  bright  drops  of  water  in  a  big  night 

wind — 

And  plans  to  make  a  profit  from  the  rich  ?  .   .  . 
I  am  not  an  anarchist 
Except  in  stars. 

IV 

When  the  dawn  comes  it  brings  the  crows. 
Caw!  Caw!  Caw!  The  crows! 
The  crow  sleeps  east  but  west  he  blows 
To  pick  some  carrion  that  he  knows 
Caw!  Caw!  Caw!  It  blows! 


I  travel  East  to  meet  the  sun 

With  a  gray  heron  battling  up  against  the  wind, 


Above  the  nests  that  knew  the  ravens  in  their  sleep, 

Above  the  trees  that  toss  the  light, 

Above  the  rocks  that  blossom  into  rose, 

On  towards  the  sun ! 

It  does  not  matter  now  how  I  am  clothed ; 

For  my  mind  glitters  with  a  thousand  thoughts, 

Star-sown,  moon-shaped,  sun-colored, 

Amber-shining  like  polished  foliage  in  a  great  dawn 

wind, 

And  the  lustre  on  the  heron's  breast 
Is  now  God  and  now  the  Morning  Star: 
I  travel  East  to  meet  the  sun! 


[29] 


BROWN  MOTHER 

Brown  Mother,  Earth  Mother,  my  love  does  it  stir, 

is  it  living? 
Is  this  seed-time  in  darkness?     It  is  bleak,  and  the 

rain 

Drums  hard  on  this  silence,  makes  heavy  my  pain. 
I  am  blind  yet  the  wind  does  search  me  like  eyes  that 

are  old. 
O,  my  Mother,  sweet  Mother,  through  the  lengthening 

night  it  is  cold! 

Brown    Mother,    Earth    Mother,    the    swell    of   your 

bosom,  the  scent  of  your  hair, 

They  are  life,  they  are  death,  two  in  one  to  your  child, 
Like  the  flame  of  your  blossom,  the  sweep  of  your  wild, 
Or  the  primal  red  mud  of  life's  sowing. 

Earth  Mother,  brown  Mother,  dear  Mother,  will  the 

long  night  be  run  ?  .   .   . 
Touch  the  root  to  its  milk,  do  you  say?     Send  the  sap 

to  the  bud, 
Feel  the  five-fingered  leaf  on  my  bosom,  the  grass  on 

my  lip? 
Find  my  bed  in  the  wild?     Bear  the  rose  and  the  lily 

for  child?   .    .    . 

O,  my  Mother,  Earth  Mother,  reach  me  round  with 

your  loving, 
Fold  me  in  to  your  heart,  base  me  deep  on  your  breast 

for  this  sleep ! 

[30] 


Then,  Mother,  sweet  Mother,  with  the  clay  and  the 
spring  I  shall  wake, 

Turn  my  back  to  the  East  with  its  frost  and  its  man 
acled  trees, 

Turn  my  face  to  the  West  and  the  blaze  of  my  lover 
the  Sun! 


SEA  GULLS 
On  Leaving  Eggemoggin 

Sea  gulls  I  saw  lifting  the  dawn  with  rosy  feet, 

Bearing  the  sunlight  on  their  wings, 

Dripping  the  dusk  from  burnished  plumes; 

And  I  thought 

It  would  be  joy  to  be  a  sea  gull 

At  dusk,  at  dawn  of  day, 

And  through  long  sunlit  hours. 

Sea  gulls  I  saw  carrying  the  night  upon  their  backs, 

Wide  tail  spread  crescent  for  the  moon  and  stars — 

The  moon  a  glowing  jelly  fish, 

The  stars  foam  flecks  of  light ; 

And  I  thought 

It  would  be  joy  to  be  a  sea  gull ! 

How  I  would  dart  with  them, 

Strike  storm  with  coral  spur, 

Rip  whirling  spray  of  angry  tides, 

Snatch  mangled,  light-shot  offal  of  the  sea, — 

Torn,  tossed  and  moving  terribly; 

And  stare  for  stare  answer  those  myriad  eyes 

That  float  and  sway,  stab,  sting  and  die  away ! 

How  I  would  peer  from  wide  cold  eyes  of  fire 

At  dusk,  at  dawn 

And  through  the  long  daylight 

Into  those  coiling  depths  of  sea; 

Then  split  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars, 

With  laughter,  laughter,  laughter, 

For  the  sea's  mad  power ! 

[32] 


DRAGON 

Some  saw  a  dragon  eating  up  the  light, 

Oho  I  Oho!  Oho,  ho,  ho! 
Some  heard  a  lost  bird  riding  out  the  night, 

Oho!  Oho!  Oho,  ho,  ho! 

But  I  saw: 

A  low  dark  hill  with  its  twisted  back, 
Two  wings  of  flame  from  the  green  cloud  rack, 
A  sprawling  flank  overlaid  with  leaf 
Glitter  and  gleam  and  shine  like  steel, 
Crackle  and  lash  like  a  serpent's  tail ! 

And  I  heard: 

The  wind  draw  out  of  the  west  and  wail, 
Dance  and  stagger  and  jig  and  reel 
With  the  long  low  sound  of  a  life  in  grief ! 

/  saw  a  life  in  grief 

Oho!  Oho!  Oho,  ho,  ho! 
Dance  and  stagger  and  jig  and  reel! 

Oho!  Oho!  Oho,  ho,  ho! 


[33] 


THE  WANDERER 

Hear  the  illimitable  wind 
Rush  from  a  desolate  sea  of  space 
Into  the  valley's  folded  gloom, 
And  smite  the  branches  gibbeted 
On  frosty  trees,  and  lash  the  woods 
To  moans  of  age-old  agony! 

Hark !  how  it  leaps  upon  the  roofs 

Of  cottages,  to  drop  whimpering 

Like  some  old  dog  before  the  door  of  home ; 

Or  pipes  through  chink  and  sill,  a  witless  thing. 

It  is  the  only  houseless  one, 

A  pensioner  of  sea  and  cloud, 

An  outcast  in  a  universe 

Of  night  and  day,  of  life  and  death, 

An  alien,  frenzied  wanderer, — 

Homeless,  illimitable  wind! 


[34] 


BLIND  SLEEP 

In  dreams  have  come  to  stay 

Karth's  golden  bonnet  of  the  day, 

Her  gay  attire, 

The  dove  wings  gray  she  wore  at  dawn, 

The  ivory  of  her  cradled  breast, 

Her  dusk  of  plumed  fire, 

And  all  her  garments  of  delight. 

Heavily  I  grope 

Step  after  step, 

Afar, 

About  this  star-illumined  sod, 

Silver  with  all  the  slumber  of  the  world, 

Jewelled  with  every  gem  of  light, 

Splintered  with  frosty  air, — 

And  know  blind  sleep. 


[35] 


THE  BOWL 

God  said,  "For  you  this  bowl  is  life! 

Draw  near  and  look ! 

Therein  is  the  bright  water  of  dawn, 

Night's  silver  covering  of  rain! 

Therein  is  dream  lying  like  day, — 

Topaz  with  sun  upon  it ! 

Lithe  out  of  this  bowl 

Shall  leap  the  larch  in  spring, 

For  this  is  love, — 

Green  flame  of  flight  to  the  very  tip!" 

I  looked  into  the  bowl,  wondering : 

And  night  and  dawn  mingled 

And  sleep  stirred 

And  the  day  turned  in  its  dream, 

And  flame,  flickering,  swept  the  bowl's  lip. 

Then  I  took  the  bowl  in  my  two  hands, 

Thanking  God. 

But  now  in  my  bowl  dawn  breaks  no  more, 

Over  the  bowl's  lip  I  hear  the  iron  shudder  of  dry 

leaves 

Beaten  by  frozen  wind. 
There  is  no  rain  to  soften  sleep, 
No  day  like  topaz  in  the  sun, 
I  see  the  larch  crumble  to  ash, — 
My  arms  grow  numb  back  to  the  very  heart 
Holding  this  bowl  God  gave  to  me  1 


[36] 


THE  GREAT  SILENCE 


Magnificent,  my  Own, 

Across  the  City's  crash  of  sound, 

Above  the  marching  of  her  war-shod  feet, 

I  hear  you  call,  "I  am  alone, — alone!" 

In  that  full,  tragic  voice  of  yours  repeat, 

Echo  and  tone, 

"Alone,— I  am  alone !" 


ii 


Oh,  Splendid  One, 
The  stars  still  hang  the  City's  night 
With  peace  and  light! 
What  wars  could  ever  bind 
The  singing  of  God's  universe  in  space? 
You  turn  your  eyes, 
Burning,  ancient,  wise, 
And  speak,  "All  have  I  seen, 
Evil  and  good, 
All  man  has  been, 
All  man  has  done, — 
And  I  am  blind." 
But  God,  I  cried  .   .  . 
Then  came  your  moan, 
Like  Pontius  Pilate  overthrown, 
"God  I  have  denied !" 
[37] 


Ill 


Magnificent,  my  Own, 

There  beyond  the  City's  sky 

Are  pinnacle  and  dream, 

The  rushing  of  a  mighty  stream, 

The  night-wind's  cry 

And  thunder-harp  of  pine. 

"Oh,  Christ,"  you  weep, 

"They  are  not  mine, 

They  are  not  mine ! 

I  cannot  see,  I  cannot  hear, 

Only  I  remember  year  on  year 

Abel  and  Cain. 

Yet  somewhere  in  this  welter  of  my  pain 

I  keep 

Memory  of  another, — 

Those  two  lost  syllables  of  doom." 

"What  syllables  are  they,  my  Own?" 

"That  word  is  'Brother' !" 


[3*1 


WHITE  HAIR 

All  the  warmth  has  gone  out  of  white  hair, 

It  only  answers  to  the  wind 

And  lifts  and  stirs  like  creeping  snow 

Close  to  the  frozen  scalp  of  earth. 

It  has  no  gold  of  autumn  grasses 

Or  red  of  beech  buds 

Or  warm  brown  of  tree  bark 

Or  depths  of  quiet 

In  which  eyes  burn  like  star-flame  in  a  dark  night. 

Has  death  white  hair 

And  the  cramped  empty  shoulders  of  old  age? 

If  he  has,  I  shall  be  as  a  child,  frightened  and  trying 

to  hide  from  him. 

But  if  his  touch  is  the  touch  of  warm  rain, 
If  his  breath  is  sweet  like  the  gray-green  fruit  of  the 

juniper, 
If  his  shoulder  is  deep  and  strong  like  the  up-heaved 

root  of  hemlock 

And  his  hair  velvet-dusk  as  a  moth's  wing, 
Then  I  shall  go  to  him  gladly, 
And  sleep  well  .   .   . 


[391 


CLEAR  POOLS 

What  is  this  bitterness  of  love  that  scatters  dust  in  the 

eyes? 
What  this  absence  that  shrivels   the   heart  and   the 

blood? 

What  these  cries  that  stop  the  ears  with  their  pain? 
Let  us  take  our  love  unto  God, 
He  understands,  He  has  fashioned  us  and  is  kind ; 
How  well  He  knows  that  love  must  carry  its  burden 
If  it  would  run  to  bathe  in  clear  pools  and  lift  its  eyes 

to  the  stars! 

What  are  we  that  we  should  not  know  that  we  are  His, 
And  of  Him  our  passion  and  of  Him  our  tears? 
His  breast  is  deep  and  He  will  fold  us  there 
In  the  mystery  of  His  dark,  in  the  miracle  of  His 

closeness. 

Distance  from  us  knows  He  not  nor  space, 
And  our  love  which  is  His  how  can  it  be  divided  from 

itself? 
Are  we  not  one  even  as  we  are  His? 

What  is  that  cry? 

Is  it  sorrow  or  is  it  the  wind  upon  the  waters? 
What  is  this  light  that  flows  like  a  brook? 
How  well  He  knows  that  love  must  carry  its  burden, 
If  it  would  run  to  bathe  in  clear  pools  and  lift  its  eyes 
to  the  stars! 


[40] 


THESE  TWO 

Sometimes  when  I  am  alone  at  night 

I  put  my  hand  upon  my  heart ; 

But  it  matters  little  to  me  that  these  two  are  one 

From  the  deep  inflow  of  the  rushing  blood 

Even  to  the  extremity  of  each  living  finger 

Swung  from  hollowed  palm  and  flexible  wrist:— 

This  heart  and  hand  that  are  so  wonderful, 

So  joined  in  life;  so  fashioned 

In  the  beat  of  pulse 

And  passionate  discernment  of  touch  for  joy, 

So  separate  and  yet  not  to  be  divided. 

It  is  not  of  them  I  am  thinking 

When  I  place  my  hand  on  my  heart 

In  the  lonely  night. 

In  its  weight 

Again  I  feel  your  head  lying  on  my  breast 

And  in  its  touch  the  oval  of  your  childlike  face. 

You  are  wide-eyed  once  more, 

With  those  gray  eyes  of  the  sea 

Full  of  space  and  the  shadows  of  birds'  wings 

And  the  terror  of  known  depths  of  human  tragedy; 

You  are  wide-eyed  now 

Looking  into  the  dark  with  me, 

Wondering  about  the  night. 

I  cannot  believe  that  it  is  only  my  own  hand  upon  my 

heart 
And  that  we  are  separated; 


I  cannot  understand  the  use  of  my  own  fingers 
Or  the  beating  of  my  own  pulse; 
And  I  take  my  hand  away 
And  lie  alone  in  the  dark 
And  suffer. 


[42] 


THE  RAILROAD  STATION 

A  station  is  a  place  of  miracle: 

So  many  trains  passing  and  repassing, 

So  many  thoughts  coming  and  going, 

So  many  greetings  and  farewells! 

Any  surprise  might  happen  there: 

God  come  and  go, 

Street  cries  turn  to  stars, 

Dust  of  blown  rubbish  whirl  to  aureole! 

Thus,  in  such  a  place, 

Love  met  me  once. 

That  day  the  shining  tracks  seemed  leaping  toward 

eternity, 

And  we  heard  the  street  cries  sing  like  stars, 
And  we  saw  God  come  and  go 
And  the  dust  upon  our  hair  was  gold! 
Now,  blinded,  I  look  past  all  I  see : 
It  might  happen, 
Love  might  be  there  again! 
It's  not  that  I  think  a  railroad  station  heaven. 
Who  does! 

Yet  so  many  greetings  and  farewells,— 
Anything  might  happen! 
Have  you  not  felt  that  way, 
And,  bewildered,  watched; 
And,  longing,  waited? 


[431 


BUBBLES 

How  shall  I  link  my  thought  to  yours 

Through  hours  that  whirl  to  dust! 

Fling  me  some  word  will  keep  me  close  to  you, 

If  but  a  rainbow  bubble  like  our  breath, 

And  share  with  me  its  swift-revolving  dream! 

See  how  the  bubble  shapes  the  silver  moon,  the  golden 

sun! 

In  purple  sleep  it  spins  among  the  stars, 
Or  crimson  film  it  holds  the  dawn, 
Only  to  break  in  shattered  mist  upon  our  lips,— 
One  azure  word  turned  kiss ! 


[44] 


PEDDLED  JOY 

"May  I  not  sell  this  gewgaw  red?" 

"You  must  not  sell! 

You  cannot  buy!" 
"Not  sell  my  own,  my  heart?" 
"You  two  are  one :  you  may  not  part,— 
One  peddled  joy,  you  both  are  dead!" 

"Must  I  go  hungry  all  the  way?" 

"You  must  not  beg! 

You  must  not  cry!" 
"Not  for  two  bits  o'love  today?" 
"Your  empty  scrip  for  pillow  keep: 
It  brings  great  gifts, — thirst,  sorrow,  sleep!" 


[45] 


WORK 

I  told  my  heart  that  work  must  be 
The  only  aim  of  life  for  me. 
But  oh !  my  heart  cried,  "Love,  love,  love !" 
And  wept  bitterly. 


[46] 


SOMEWHERE  TONIGHT 

On  hearing  the  Evening  Bells  at   Westport-on-Lake 
Cham  plain 


Somewhere  I  have  heard  bells 

Mellow  as  the  moon: 

Somewhere  they  hung  and  swung, 

With  slender  sound  they  rose 

Tiptoe  with  hunger  for  the  sky, 

Star-pointed  with  the  light  of  dream; 

Somewhere   those   eager   bells   whispered   of  love, — 

That  was  another  day, 

And  we  were  gay! 

II 

And  now  this  withered  sound's  farewell 

Swinging  like  tethered  rhyme, 

Slow-moving,  pendulous, 

A  sigh  upon  the  water's  breast, 

A  cloud  within  the  sky ! 

Never  again  for  us,  Beloved, 

Yet    somewhere    the   moon    shines   and    is    bright, — 

Somewhere  tonight! 


[47] 


YOUR  SUNLIT  WAY 


Should  one  thought  cry  against  me  in  your  heart, 
I  could  not  rise  from  Death,  saying,  "Love,  my  place 
Is  by  your  living  side;  ghostly,  I  touch 
Your  precious  hands,  I  kiss  your  lovely  face!" 

ii 

I  would  not  have  you  shrink  to  feel  me  near, 
Or  claim  despite  your  will  what  once  was  mine, 
Was  ours  in  God-flung  vow,  passionate,  dear 
By  night,  by  day,  companioned  or  apart. 

in 

Not  mine  to  snare  your  liberty,  to  cage 
Your  sunlit  way.     Yet,  wish  me  gone,  I  leap 
From  light,  I  plunge  to  find  amen  and  shroud 
In  Death, — this  time  for  Love's  eternal  sleep. 


[48] 


STRANGE  FACES 

There ! 

That  is  the  face  for  me — 

That  face  I  shall  never  see 

In  this  world  again! 

All  that  I  miss  is  there, 

Touch  of  life  and  its  kiss! 

O,  mysterious  love  in  our  heart 

Found  for  us  both  as  we  pass,— 

As  we  part ! 


[49] 


EVERYWHERE 

You  I  love, 
You  and  you : 
One  I  never  see 
And  one  I  know. 

Well,  and  what  then? 

Nothing. 

But,  I  ask, 

Does  the  wind  blow? 

Do  feet  drift  or  go? 

And  where? 

How  shall  a  tinker  mend 

A  pinch  of  dust? 

Some  things  are  mine  to  keep, 

Some  to  share: 

My  thoughts  I  bear 

Because  I  must; 

My  love  I  spend 

Because  I  wish, 

On  you  I  never  see, 

On  you  I  know, — 

Everywhere. 


[50] 


CLOUD 

A  slate  galleon  hurrying  across  a  sea  of  fire, — 

And  they  call  that  "cloud"! 

And  the  sea  it  sails  upon  "sky"! 

Tut,  it  is  a  ship  as  plain  as  anything 

Full-spread  to  find  the  silver  edges  of  the  world 

Where  ships  and  island  daffodils 

Burn,  follow  sun,  dip, 

Ging  to  the  shining  brim  like  flapping  butterflies, 

Let  go, 

Then,  whirling  sail  and  streaming  daffodil, 

Dart  into  night  and  flame  to  stars! 

And  the  "sky"  .   .   . 

Now  you  tell  what  the  sky  is! 


BUCENTAUR 
At  Isle  au  Haut 

Dawn,  bright  dawn, 

White  swan  on  the  edge  of  the  dark  pool  of  night 

Fan  the  shade  from  its  mirror, 

Cleave  the  stars  on  its  deep! 

Joyous  barge  of  my  dream, 

On  the  wave,  on  the  wind,  O  Bucentaur, 

With  your  cry  sweep  the  seas, 

Shake  the  wind  from  the  trees, 

Wake  the  world  from  its  sleep, 

Meet  and  greet 

Song  within  song! 

Your  eyes  jewelled  fire, 
Your  touch  my  desire, 
Draw  nearer,  draw  nearer 
Down  the  rose-colored  stream; 
White  swan,  bright  dawn, 
Kiss  me,  and  lift  me 
On  the  wing  of  your  light! 


[52] 


MOTH 
At  Isle  au  Haut 

Gray  as  a  moth  the  light  of  day 

Dawns  in  the  east, 

Dimming  the  star  that  crowns  the  hill, 

Stilling  the  wind, 

Hushing  the  deep 

Of  the  water's  sleep; 

Flits  like  a  moth's  pearl  wing  in  the  night 

To  the  peak  of  mast 

And  the  spire  of  tree, 

Touches  the  nest  and  its  thrush  to  song, 

Flutters  the  edge  of  the  sky  along. 

Gray  like  a  moth 

Dawn  slips  away, 

Bright  in  apocalypse  of  light. 

Rose  and  gold  and  green  of  the  world, 

Wind  and  bird  and  the  great  sea's  lay 

Possess  the  day ! 


[53] 


GRAY  WATERS 
-At  Isle  au  Haul 

Take  me  to  some  isle  upon  the  sea ! 
Bear  me  on  wing  of  bird  or  keel  of  ship 
Out  where  gray  waters  slip 
About  some  isle  upon  the  sea, — 
Upon  the  sea! 

Lay  me  within  some  caverned  rock 
Whose  bosom,  hard  from  all  the  years, 
Knows  nothing  of  men's  tears, — 
Gray  peaceful  rest  beside  the  sea, 
Beside  the  sea! 

Take  me  to  some  isle  upon  the  sea! 
Bear  me  on  wing  of  bird  or  keel  of  ship 
Out  where  gray  waters  slip 
About  some  isle  upon  the  sea ! 
Upon  the  sea! 


[54] 


JOURNEY'S  END 

I  shall  not  hear  the  thrushes  sing, 
Though  sing  they  will  that  day ; 

For  me  will  be  an  unknown  sod 
And  an  undreamed-of  May! 


[551 


WHITE  PATHS 

Here  are  white  paths  that  gleam 
In  the  twilight  space  of  dream; 
Here  the  winds  turn  in  their  sleep 
With  the  rocking  of  the  deep  ; 
Here  the  golden  song  of  thrush 
Is  music's  sunlight,  evening's  hush; 
Here  the  rustle  of  our  prayer 
Climbs  the  forest  altar  stair; 
And  here  the  stars  burn  in  the  sod — 
Peaceful  candlelight  for  God. 


[56] 


EBONY 

On  watching  a  beautiful  black  arm  opening  a  Venetian 
Lantern  at  Fleur  de  Lys 

Ebony,  Ebony, 
Dreaming  of  a  rose, 
Flame  in  the  flower-heart, 
Dusk  in  repose; 

Jeweled  eyes  glistening, 

Dew  on  the  leaf, 

Sweet  to  Africa 

Is  the  thought  of  her  grief. 


[57] 


TO  SOME  PHILADELPHIA  SPARROWS 

Men  say  unfriendly  words  of  you,  poor  birds! 
And  I?     I  praise  you  for  your  saucy  joy 
On  dusty  streets;  I  love  you  for  your  twitter 
In  vines  that  cling  to  heated  city  walls; 
Your  noisy  congregations  on  the  trees; 
Unchurchly  ways  of  saying  this  and  that 
About  your  brother  men;  your  gaieties 
In  parks  nearby  a  fountain's  dripping  brim. 

Men  say  your  manners  are  not  fine.     And,  too, 
They  call  you  scavengers,  they  call  you  thief 
And  enemy  to  other  prettier  birds. 
Perhaps  we  are  one  feather,  you  and  I ! 
I  would  not  hold  it  any  grief  to  be 
Your  brother  bird  upon  the  city  street. 

I  love  you,  chatterers!     Yet  I  have  heard 
The  lark  in  other  lands,  the  thrush  in  this. 
Dull  many  a  day  had  been  without  your  din, 
Your  wrangles  under  foot,  your  shameless  ways. 

Men  say  unfriendly  words  of  you.     Of  me 
They  speak  unkindly,  too.     Yet  see  how  gay 
We  are!     Ah,  well,  we  are  one  feather,  you 
And  I !     We  have  the  city  streets  for  plunder, 
The  eaves  for  wonder,  and  above  there  is 
The  sky! 


[5*1 


ORIOLE'S  NEST 

AT    FLEUR    DE   LYS 

Night  in  an  oriole's  hanging  nest 
Is  rocking  a  basket  world  to  sleep. 
The  wind  blows  soft 
And  the  wind  blows  far, 
Star,  creep,  star! 

Pack  me  tight  in  my  basket  world, 

Tread  me  and  turn  me  with  feet  of  your  love ! 

O,  Mother  Bird,  fledge  me  with  feather  and  rest! 

O,  Mother  Bird,  brood  me  with  flame  of  your  breast! 

Down  in  the  marshes  the  little  fish  gleam, 

Down  in  the  marshes  the  little  fish  stir 

Rushes  in  sleep, 

Rushes  that  keep 

Wrinkling  the  light  of  a  drowsy  star. 

Here  in  my  basket  world  hung  on  the  wind 

Over  me  rustles  an  ebony  bough, 

Over  me  hovers  a  silvery  beak ; 

And  clear  and  soft 

And  near  and  far 

Lustre  of  loving  eyes  rocked  in  this  nest, 

Eyes  that  are  gentle, 

Eyes  that  are  meek. 

O,  Mother  Bird,  fledge  me  with  feather  and  rest! 

O,  Mother  Bird,  brood  me  with  flame  of  your  breast ! 


[59] 


LITTLE  MISS  HILLY 

Oh,  little  Miss  Hilly  of  Northampton-town 
Goes  walking  the  valleys  and  meadows  adown ; 
She  looks  in  the  brooks  for  the  stars  and  the  moon 
And  she  sings  an  old  chanty  a  bit  out  of  tune. 
Oh,  little  Miss  Hilly  is  dear  unto  me, — 
Is  dear  unto  me ! 

Her  arms  are  so  eager  but  tiny  are  they, 
And  her  fingers  are  agile  as  waters  at  play. 
Yet  little  Miss  Hilly  must  climb  a  steep  slope, 
Must  go  without  laughter  and  live  without  hope: 
Must  chatter  and  patter  like  leaves  and  like  rain, 
Must  shiver  and  quiver  and  ache  with  the  pain 
Of  climbing  for  stars  and  wanting  the  moon 
As  she  puts  an  old  chanty  once  more  into  tune, 
Ere  the  stars  will  come  down  or  the  moon  will  reply 
Except  by  a  wink  through  a  chink  in  the  sky 
Oh,  little  Miss  Hilly  so  dear  unto  me, 
So  dear  unto  me! 


ROSE  TOADA 
A  Sleep  Song 


Shoo,  Rose  Toada,  Shoo! 
Jewelled  red  eyes  for  you. 
Shoo,  Rose  Toada,  Shoo! 

ii 

Hoosh,  Rose  Toada,  hoosh! 
Little  green  snake  in  the  bush. 
Hoosh,  Rose  Toada,  hoosh ! 

in 

Bizz,  Rose  Toada,  buzz ! 
Gold  on  its  wings  and  fuzz. 
Bizz,  Rose  Toada,  buzz! 


[61 


THATCH 

Oh  Boy,  give  me  your  yellow  thatch  for  home, 
Your  yellow  thatch  of  hair, 
Straw  with  the  wind  and  air! 

Oh  Boy,  give  me  your  stubble  cheek  to  roam, 
Brown  hayfield  in  the  dew,— 
Rusty  with  sun  and  you ! 


[62] 


SUN-PATH 

i 

How  should  I  touch  your  years  with  mine, 
Yours  flushed  with  dawn,  a  flight 
For  all  ecstacy  of  light,  of  rose,  of  flame, 
Mine  shadowed  even  now  by  night ! 
Yet,  child,  blown  by  the  dawn-wind  of  your  name, 
Tossed  by  the  sunlight  in  your  eyes, 
Sped  by  the  glow  upon  your  lips,  you  came, 
Seeking  my  shadow  and  my  rest. 

ii 

Tell  me  what  made  you  run  to  me? 
Was  it  the  long,  unsheltered  way  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
The  hot,  unclouded,  copper  day  of  truth, 
Was  it  some  legend  of  men's  tears  and  strife, 
Some  tale  of  cowards  prospering  in  the  sun, 
Some  sin  red-flung  across  the  lilies  that  men  love? 
Or  terror  which  the  old  forget,  fears 
Following  as  you  fled,  some  shame 
Of  fact  too  awful  for  your  youth  to  bear? 

in 

Back  to  your  sun-path  now  you  run 
And  on  with  wing  of  bird  and  flight  of  sun. 
Your  youth  upon  its  golden  way 
Forgets  it  ever  asked  for  rest, 
Forgets  my  desolated  day. 
To  me  you  left  your  tears, 
Your  fears  a-tremble, 
And  hunger  in  mine  eyes  for  you. 
And  I  ?     I  leave  you  free. 

[63] 


RAVELLO 

A  Recollection  of  the  Garden  in  which  Wagner 

composed  "Parzival" 

Words  glimmering  like  candles  in  the  dusk 
You  tell  your  golden  tale  of  Italy, — 
Ravello  and  its  starlit,  tranquil  sea 
Among  massed  trees  sleep-hung  with  jewelled  fruit; 
Antiquity  against  a  shadowed  sky, 
And  everywhere  old  gardens  where  men  loved 
So  long  ago,  and  the  moon  rose  on  vows 
And  thirsty  human  lips  aching  to  meet ; 
And  the  moon  set  on  darkling  ivory-petalled  rows 
Of  lilies  and  on  hands  dim  with  loneliness : — 
Below,  Amalfi's  campanile  plays 
Its  even-song,  full  chant  and  antiphon, 
A  wish,  a  hope,  a  call  from  star  to  star. 

O,  Compassionate  One,  night-long  with  you  I  hark 
The  travelling  of  that  music  lost  in  space, 
The  echoing  of  those  faithful  feet  of  men, 
And  touch  the  blurred  chalcedony  of  tears, 
And  breathe  those  candle-lighted  thoughts,  faint  musk 
Of  old  days  vanished  in  silence  now! 
Night-long  I  dream  your  face  pressed  close  to  mine 
Is  lily  of  Ravello  in  its  sleep, 

Touched  with  some  ancient  sorrow  gardens  keep,— 
An  ivory-petalled  dream  whose  ghostly  passions  shine 
Like  fingers  in  the  dark  struggling  with  fears: — 
O,  set  your  love  for  me,  my  Own,  ray  Sweet, 
The  whiteness  of  your  breast  and  brow  aglow 
With  God,  like  candleshine  before  my  feet! 

[64] 


CHESTER-ON-THE  DEE 

Sleep,  little  town,  your  moonlit  walls 
Are  hushed  with  long-ago! 
Night,  like  your  river,  brings  to  you 
Forget  fulness  of  woe. 

Peace,  little  town !     Grave  sleep  is  this 
That  aches  in  love  and  tears, 
With  singing  stream,  with  shining  dream, 
With  sense  of  other  years. 


[65] 


THE  RIVER  SEIONT 
At  Carnarvon  in  North  W ales 

Where  the  salt  sea  winds  her  sleeping  path 

Up  the  River  Seiont  in  summer  time, 

And  daisies  flush  the  aftermath 

Of  stubble  corn;  and  heavy  cows 

Wait  by  the  water's  edge, 

While  cloud-capped  Snowdon  hills  grow  dim, 

And  fading  Anglesey  a  crystal  rim, — 

Then 

Your  spirit  comes, 

A  tidal  sea, 

Winding, 

Up  the  River  Seiont, 

Past  the  purple  hill; 

Winding, 

Past  the  Castle  wall, 

Winding ; — 

Then 

Your  spirit  comes, 

Winding, 

Up  the  River  Seiont 

To  me. 


[66] 


GOLD  AND  IVORY 

They  lie  beside  me  all  the  night, 

They  crowd  up  close  to  me; 

And  when  I  turn,  they  turn; 

And  when  I  sigh,  they  cry. 

Says  one:  "I  am  the  love  you  sought 

Now  wrinkled  to  an  afterthought." 

The  other  whispers  in  my  ear: 

"You  coveted: 

Behold,  I  lie  here  dead!" 

These  are  the  gifts  sleep  brings  to  me,- 

My  dreams  of  gold  and  ivory! 


STEPS 


There  is  a  stair  to  climb 
That — Christ  you  keep! — 
Men  stumble  there 
It  is  so  steep. 

ii 

Its  steps  give  scarce  foothold, 
Yet,  pilgrim-shod, 
Hungry,  athirst, 
Men  climb  to  God. 


[68] 


BESIDE  THE  WAY 


O,  little  wind  of  every  day, 
O,  little  wind  of  hope, 

Bring  to  me  love 

Beside  the  way, 
O,  little  wind  of  every  day! 

ii 

There's  vexing  work  for  scanty  keep, 
With  tears  for  daily  drink, 

And  but  this  cup 

To  bring  me  sleep, 
This  cup  of  golden  love  dream-deep. 

in 

O,  little  wind  of  every  day, 
O,  little  wind  of  hope, 

Bring  to  me  love 

Beside  the  way, 
O,  little  wind  of  every  day ! 


WAIT  AWHILE 


If  you  would  know  my  mother-heart, 
Then  wait  awhile,  be  still ; 
Watch  for  the  settling  dusky  light, 
The  silence,  on  the  hill; 
And  wait  awhile,  be  still. 

ii 

Love,  heed  the  clap  of  little  hands, 

Of  leaves  upon  my  trees ; 

And  hear  the  travelling  of  the  wind, 

The  moving  of  the  seas; 

Then  wait  awhile,  be  still. 

in 

If  you  would  know  my  mother-heart, 

But  watch  the  wasting  day ! 

The  wind  steps  softly  in  the  corn, 

The  light  slips  to  the  hill ; 

Love,  wait  awhile,  be  still. 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

Blossoms  shaken  from  their  star  forms 

Back  to  earth, 

Flying  seedlings  warm  and  waiting 

Drift  in  sunlight  with  the  going 

Of  the  birds  towards  the  south! 

Birds  are  going! 
They  will  sing  before  they  go, 
Fill  the  orchard  with  their  mirth : 
Song  of  harvest,  song  of  summer,  song  of  spring 
time, — 
They  remember  it  was  April  long  ago ! 

We  are  parting, 

You  are  going  towards  the  south ! 
Love  was  birth. 
Is  this  dying, — 

Death  my  harvest,  grief  my  summer,  tears  my  spring 
time?  .  .  . 
Well,  kiss  me  kindly, 
Song  is  warmest  on  the  mouth ! 
Give  me  love  before  you  go! 


A  THOUSAND  YEARS 

A  thousand  years  from  now 
No  one  will  know  that  you  and  I 
Lifted  our  arms  to  touch  the  sky 
And  clasped  an  empty  vow, — 

No  one  will  know, 

We  loved  so  long  ago! 

A  thousand  years  from  now 
We  shall  not  hear  the  cry  of  hope 
Linger,  remember,  echo,  grope, 
While  mornings  glow 
And  evenings  come  and  go! 

A  thousand  years  from  now 
No  one  will  know  that  we  have  slept 
Breast  to  each  other's  breast  and  wept,- 

No  one  will  know 

We  loved  so  long  ago! 

A  thousand  years  from  now 
We  shall  not  see  love  welcome  death, 
Dreams  harden  into  frosted  breath, 
Spring  burn  the  apple  bough 
While  mornings  glow 
And  evenings  come  and  go! 


[72] 


THE  BROKEN  DOOR 

This  is  the  place!     I  know 

The  broken  door,  the  ragged  bed  of  bloom 

Where  poppies  grow, 

Row  after  row. 

This  is  the  place. 
A  year  ago,  her  footprint 
Marked  the  garden  path 
With  tender  hollow. 

But  now? 

Time's  step  is  slow  to  follow. 


[73] 


ONLY  YOUR  NAME 

Sometimes  I  wake  from  sleep 

Only  your  name  drawing  across  my  lips 

In  creeping  wind  from  unlit  space, 

No  star  sparks  flickering  on  that  wind, 

No  signal  tree  top  touched  with  racing  light, 

No  lantern-memory  hung  to  show  the  way; 

Only  a  pathless  name, 

Dark,  terrible,  meaningless  because  most  near 

And  yet  I  never  knew  you, — 

Only  your  name  and  pain ! 


[74] 


REPETENDS 

In  the  still  woods  I  find  your  eyes, 
I  hear  your  voice  once  more 
And  the  far-singing  hermit  thrush 
Beyond  our  northern  door. 

In  the  still  woods  pale  repetends 
I  find  of  death  and  grief 
In  fallen  nest  and  perished  bee 
And  sepulchre  of  leaf. 


[75] 


TOO  LATE 

It  is  too  long,  too  long! 

My  heart  grows  old  with  grieving 

For  the  touch  of  you. 

It  is  too  far,  too  far! 

My  eyes  are  dazed 

With  searching  emptiness, — 

The  dark,  the  blurred  horizon 

With  its  dust  of  other  feet. 

It  is  too  late,  too  late! 

Gray  thoughts  stalk  round  me 

With  their  death. 

I  strike  my  tent, 

I  go. 

Not  even  dreams  can  bring  you  now,- 

Too  long,  too  far,  too  late! 


[76] 


THE  TIDE 

I  shall  find  you  when  the  tide  comes  in,- 

A  shell,  a  sound,  a  flash  of  light 

To  live  with  me  by  day, 

To  dream  with  me  by  night. 

You  come  and  go 
As  waters  flow; 
You  lap  me  round 
You  pour  me  full; 
A  shell  at  rest 
You  touch  my  breast. 
I  feel  your  will, 
And  I  am  bound 
By  light,  by  sound; 
To  love  you  still. 

I  shall  find  you  when  the  tide  conies  in,- 

A  shell,  a  sound,  a  flash  of  light. 

Men  say  you  died. 

They  knew  not  what  to  say,— 

I  hear  the  tide, 

I  hear  the  tide! 


(77} 


DUST  AND  DREAMS 

At  peace  with  every  sweet  remembered  thing 
You  lie;  with  woodland  song  that  died  long  years 
Ago;  with  pebbles  washed  ashore  and  fears 
Released  and  feathers  broken  from  the  wing 
That  beat  its  westward  flight  towards  the  sun 
And  some  far  nest  beside  some  unknown  sea : 
I  would  not  answer  when  you  called  to  me, 
And  now  my  thought  of  you  is  never  done. 

This  starlit  road  with  its  dark  towering  pines, 
Its  dust  of  misty  pollen  blown  in  cloud 
From  field  to  field,  its  silences,  its  shroud 
Of  clinging  dark  and  all  its  trailing  vines 
White  with  moonshine  and  the  priestly  dew, 
We  shared.     Tonight  I  travel  it  alone, — 
Alone  I  go  towards  that  glistening  stone 
Which  marks  your  rest,  my  thought  a  prayer  for  you. 

Singing  the  water  rushes  past  your  quiet  grave 
Beneath  this  little  town  whose  ancient  name 
Suggests  the  fair  collegiate  dream  and  fame 
Of  Oxford  and  her  clustered  towers.     With  wave 
The  river  winds  a  garland  for  your  rest— 
The  woven  sound  of  grieving  without  end. 
To  you  I  bring  the  memory  of  a  friend 
And  lay  these  words  on  your  remembered  breast. 


THE  NEST 

i 
Oh,  is  there  room  at  your  feet,  dear  one? 

And  is  there  room  at  your  side? 
And  can  you  hear  the  sound  of  my  breath 

And  sorrow  that  cries  like  a  tide? 

ii 
Oh,  may  I  take  your  hand,  dear  one, 

As  the  nest  enfolds  the  bird, 
Lie  close  to  your  heart  and  breast  to  breast 

And  never  a  spoken  word? 

in 
What  then  if  the  stars  be  gone,  dear  one, 

What  then  if  the  wind  be  still, 
And  words  that  we  spoke  long  years  ago 

Drift  pale  and  faint  and  chill? 

IV 

Our  dust  shall  be  warmed  by  the  sun,  dear  one, 
Our  grief  shall  fade  with  the  snow ; 

And  mingled  in  spring  by  sun  and  rain 
Our  love  to  a  flower  blow. 

v 

Oh,  is  there  room  at  your  feet,  dear  one? 

And  is  there  room  at  your  side? 
And  can  you  hear  the  sound  of  my  breath 

And  sorrow  that  cries  like  a  tide? 

[79] 


LOST  LOVE 

You  have  her  mouth  of  grief, — 

Your  parted  lips  half-shape  a  moan; 

You  have  her  brow  branded  with  memory ; 

You  have  her  downcast  eyes 

Brooding  like  doves  above  the  body's  need  ; 

You  have  her  heart  of  love 

Where  music  flows 

And  sorrows  nurse. 

O  Voice  of  all  lost  love  and  agony, 

Cecilia,  Saint, 

We  beg  the  healing  of  your  breast, 

Music  at  our  lips 

And  sleep! 


[80] 


"WHEN  SPRING" 

A   BALLAD  OF   LOVE 

I 

When  spring  was  in  her  heart  beat, 
Her  lover  came  from  sea; 

She  gave  him  passion's  lily  cup, 
He  gave  her  thistles  three. 

ii 
When  spring  was  in  her  heart  beat, 

He  filled  their  lily  cup 
With  bitter  dew  and  star  dust 

And  frozen  spray  to  sup. 

in 
When  spring  was  in  her  heart  beat, 

He  snared  the  only  star 
Still  racing  on  her  dream  path : 

Now  other  thistles  are! 

IV 

He  said  a  little  tinsel 

Would  serve  her  last  journee, 
And  nailed  a  glittering  handful 

Upon  a  willow  tree. 

v 

Now  death  drags  at  her  heart  beat 
She  sees  gray  branches  weep; 

They  drip  but  ashen  starlight, 
Singing,  "Sleep!  Sleep!  Sleep!" 
[81] 


TWO  CANDLES 

TO  MY  MOTHER  AT  FLEUR  DE  LYS 


Two  candles  place  I  at  her  feet, 
Two  candles  at  her  head; 

These  are  the  gifts  that  I  would  bring 
To  my  Beloved  Dead. 


I  sought  the  violet  of  her  eyes, 
Her  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep; 

My  love  was  trembling  like  a  child 
And  could  not  even  weep. 


in 

I  clad  her  in  a  purple  shroud, 
Some  said  it  should  be  white; 

I  said,  "The  passion  of  her  eyes 
Found  peace  in  candlelight !" 


IV 

Sometimes  I  see  her  ash-gold  hair 
Shimmer  within  the  night; 

Sometimes  I  feel  her  violet  eyes 
Searching  for  candlelight. 

[82] 


Sometimes  I  hear  her  drifting  feet 
That  seek  from  door  to  door, 

Guided  by  star  and  blowing  wind, 
Dream-shod  forevermore. 


VI 


When  will  she  come  again  to  me 
Led  by  the  wind  and  star? 

She  need  not  even  call  my  name, 
I  could  not  wander  far. 


VII 


Two  candles  place  I  at  her  feet, 
Two  candles  at  her  head : 

Remembrance  and  Oblivion 
Enfold  my  lonely  dead. 


ROSY  MILLER 

I  do  not  ever  remember  having  seen  Rosy  Miller; 

I  never  met  her; 

Yet  lose  her  I  never  can. 

One  night  at  dusk  she  came  down  a  hill  with  me, 

And  the  stars  glowed 

And  all  the  college  buildings  were  laced  with  window 

lights, 
And  beyond  them  were  the  dark  hills. 

It  was  the  speech  of  a  friend  that  made  her  live  for 

me— 

She  was  living  then — , 
Rosy  Miller,  who  gave  and  gave, 
Who,  a  child  still,  had  learned  the  whole  meaning  of 

life, 

Who  asked  nothing, 
Who  never  held  a  hand  out  mendicant  to  others. 

That  was  three  years  ago,  that  hour  at  dusk, 

And  now  they  say  she  is  dead. 

But  that  is  a  mistake: 

Even  for  me  who  never  knew  her  she  still  lives. 


[84] 


HIS  NAME 

He  loved  men  with  a  great  soul's  deepest  love ; 
He  saw  in  them  truth,  hope,  the  very  flame 
Of  constancy.     And  then  alone 
He  died.     Men  have  forgot  his  name. 


[85] 


MIST 

i 

I  climb  them  step  by  step, — 
The  vanished  years. 
Stumbling  I  pause  to  look  below, 
Down  wells  of  time,  so  black,  so  deep 
Their  waters  keep 
No  sound, 
Nor  show  a  star, 
Nor  hold  a  memory. 

ii 

Sometimes  I  kneel  and  look  above 
That  dark  stairway 
At  years  to  come; 
My  ringers  clasp  my  fears, 
Where  my  hopes  go. 
Up  there,  beyond  that  last,  gray  step, 
Afar, 

Within  that  roof  of  mist, 
What  is  that  shape  in  flight 
Dim,  strong  and  slow? 

in 

"A  wing,"  some  say; 
Some  answer,  "Love"; 
And  some  say,  "Night 
And  Sleep." 
But  I? 
I  do  not  know. 

[86] 


LAST  DAWN 

When  that  last  dawn  comes,  what  will  it  bc?- 

A  plume  of  fire  on  a  cloud  of  gray; 

A  shrouded  ship  in  a  cocoon  sea; 

A  mountain  peak  with  its  one  gold  star ; 

A  bird's  nest  swung  by  a  silver  wind ; 

Or  the  curve  of  an  arm  with  its  cradled  child? 

What  will  that  last  dawn  be? 

And  God,  what  will  God  be? 

The  plume  of  fire  or  the  mist-spun  ship, 

The  mountain  peak  with  its  signal  star, 

The  nest  blown  wide  for  the  coming  day, 

Or  the  child  in  the  human  passionate  arms?  .   . 

I  wonder  what  God  will  be 

And  who  shall  see ! 


[87] 


EVEN  AS  HERE 

This  is  the  end  to  which  I  come, 

I  who  have  loved  beauty  all  my  days : 
This  grief  of  tortured  flowers, 
This  prison  box  devised  by  men, 
These  nails  and  hasps  and  graven  plates, 
This  narrow  room,  these  curious  eyes, 
This  tolling  bell, 

These  mumbled  words  miscalled  of  God, 
This  brutal  stone! 


O,  rather,  Love, 
Lay  me  on  sweet-burning  cedar, 

Free,  fragrant  with  beaded  pitch  where  the  clean  axe 
cut, 

With  flame  that  leaps  from  singing  heart  of  wood  to 

mine! 
Then  cast  me  as  ash  upon  the  quilted  colors  of  the 

autumn  hills, 

And  I  shall  be  pale  lace  of  wind 
To  kiss  your  lips,  your  eyes  once  more ! 


Or  strew  me  on  water 

Till  I  know  again  its  slipping  hands  of  dream, 
And  see  its  golden  deep  of  sand  shadowed  with  mem 
ories, 

And  feel  its  cradling  touch  soft  as  your  moving  breast 
In  closeness  beyond  the  reach  of  words! 

[88] 


Or  toss  me  as  a  feather 

To  some  little  shepherd  moon  and  flock  of  stars 

Where,  in  the  slow-rolling  of  prodigious  hours 

Round  the  blown  crust  of  other  worlds, 

Space  beyond  space, 

I  shall  find  you, — even  as  here! 


I**] 


AGAIN? 
To  my  Home  on  Lake  Champlain 

Shall  I  come  again? 
Again  to  see  the  reeds, 
Yellowing  now? 

"Bye  and  bye! 
Bye  and  bye!" 
Lake  rushes  cry. 

Shall  I  come  again 
To  these  willow  leaves 
Falling  now? 

Their  joy  was  brief! 
The  willow  leaf 
Knows  grief. 

Shall  I  breathe  again 
Gray  balsam  dripping  amber 
On  the  mould? 

What  knows  the  year 
Of  any  fear,— 
Of  any  amber  tear! 

September  27,  1920. 

[90] 


4S8749 


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